4. Connor
Connor
“Keep working,” I growl. “Don’t. Fucking. Stop.”
The sun beats down from above like it’s got a personal grudge, but I don’t slow. My bare feet pound the narrow dirt trail that circles the hidden lake, each stride driving lactic acid deeper into my quads and calves.
Shirtless, wearing nothing but an old pair of faded black running shorts that have seen ten summers and too many washes, sweat rolls down my chest, my back, my neck.
But it feels good. Clean. The kind of burn that reminds me I’m still alive and in control.
Shadow and Spirit splash and romp along the grassy edge of the lake like a couple of overgrown pups, tongues lolling, tails whipping water everywhere. Every few laps they charge in for a swim, then shake off and chase each other through the reeds.
Their energy never quits. Good . It keeps me pushing on too.
“Last one,” I mutter under my breath, fists pumping as I hit the final straight.
My lungs are on fire, legs screaming, but I lean into it. I picture every enemy I ever faced, every ghost that still tries to crawl out of my past, and I outrun them all.
My feet dig harder. Faster . The world narrows to the trail, the breath ripping in and out of me, and the finish line I set in my own head.
I cross it with a roar that scatters a flock of birds from the nearest oak. Chest heaving, I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, sucking air like I’ve just come up from the bottom of the lake. Sweat drips off my nose onto the dirt. Perfect.
No one comes out this far unless they’re looking for real trouble.
This lake is mine—tucked deep in the folds of Skull Cabin Creek, shielded by thick woodland and sheer rock on three sides. Hidden from the world. Just how I like it.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts and shove them down along with my boxers in one motion. The hot sun kisses every inch of my naked body as I step out of the fabric. My cock hangs heavy between my thighs, already half-interested from the blood still pumping hard through me.
I don’t give a damn. No one’s here. No one ever is.
For a moment I stand and stretch my hands above my head and reverse lunge, my quads aching enough to tell me that one reverse lunge is more than enough.
My dick is getting harder though. There’s something about being on display like this, even if there is no one around to witness it, that just does something to me.
Whatever . It’s time to move…
I walk straight into the lake. The water’s shockingly cold against my overheated skin. Perfect. It hits my calves, my knees, my balls, and I hiss through my teeth as it climbs my torso.
When it reaches my chest I push off and dive under, stroking hard for the middle. Breaking the surface, I shake water from my hair and let out a long, satisfied groan.
Nothing beats this. Well, almost nothing.
Naked in the sun-warmed air above and ice-cold water below, my body temperature drops fast. Muscles relax.
The constant low hum of vigilance in the back of my mind eases, just a fraction.
I float on my back, eyes closed against the bright sky, cock bobbing just beneath the surface.
The gentle lap of water against my skin feels too damn good.
Private. Free .
I could stay out here for hours.
But a sudden splash and frantic barking snaps my eyes open.
Shadow and Spirit are no longer playing at the water’s edge. Both dogs are sprinting up the bank toward a thick patch of undergrowth about thirty yards away, ears forward, bodies low and focused. That’s not normal. At this lake they usually have to be dragged out of the water.
Something’s got their full attention.
My pulse spikes. Mountain cat? Could be a mother with cubs this time of year—territorial as hell and twice as dangerous. One wrong move and my boys could be shredded.
I don’t hesitate.
I power through the water, legs kicking hard, arms cutting through the surface. Water flies off my naked body as I hit the shallows and charge up the grassy bank.
No time for shorts. No time for modesty. My heavy cock swings against my thighs as I run, water streaming down my abs and legs. I plant my feet wide at the edge of the clearing, chest still heaving, every muscle coiled and ready.
“Shadow! Spirit! Back here. Now !” My voice booms across the lake, deep and commanding.
Both dogs skid to a stop instantly. They turn, tongues out, looking almost sheepish as they trot back to me like nothing happened.
No blood. No limping. No sign of a cat.
I drop to a crouch, still completely naked under the blazing sun, and run my hands over their wet coats, checking for injuries. Nothing . They lean into me, tails wagging, happy as ever.
“What the hell got into you two?” I mutter, scanning the undergrowth. The bushes look untouched. No movement. No glowing eyes. Just birdsong and the soft lap of water behind me. “Typical. Probably saw a damn rabbit, didn’t you?”
But, rabbit or not, I stay crouched a long minute, listening.
The forest stays quiet. Too quiet? Or maybe I’m just paranoid. Wouldn’t be the first time my past made me see threats that aren’t there.
“Alright,” I say, giving each dog a firm pat. “False alarm. Back to the water if you want.”
They don’t need telling twice.
Both charge straight back into the lake, barking happily. I watch them for another minute, still naked, skin drying fast in the sun. My cock has calmed down from the adrenaline, but the memory of that sudden spike of protectiveness lingers.
I shake my head, grab my discarded shorts and boxers, and pull them on.
Enough swimming for today.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t have other plans to be getting on with…
* * *
Back at the cabin the sun is slightly covered by the trees, but still strong.
I’m showered, dressed in a clean black t-shirt and worn jeans, barefoot on the wide wooden deck that overlooks the valley.
A fresh pot of strong black coffee sits on the small table beside me, steam curling up. My notebook—leather-bound, pages already half-filled with crossed-out lines and scribbled notes—lies open.
My favorite pen is in hand.
This is the part of the day I’ve started looking forward to more than I want to admit.
Writing. A novel. My novel.
This is something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid reading beat-up paperbacks by flashlight in places no kid should ever be. For years I told myself it was stupid. A waste of time. That a man with my history had no business spinning stories.
But this time feels different. The words are coming easier. Darker. Rawer. A thriller with a mountain setting, a haunted ex-operator protagonist, and enough heat to match the fire that’s been building in my blood since a certain blue-eyed boy crashed into my woods.
“Okay, time to work,” I say, a smile on my face as I allow my mind to sink into creative mode—not always an easy task for a man like me.
I take a long sip of coffee, the bitterness grounding me, and put pen to paper. The scene flows—my hero tracking something dangerous through the trees, tension thick, muscles coiled. I lose myself in it. The scratch of the pen, the warm deck boards under my feet, the distant call of a hawk. Peace.
Until a soft rustle breaks the quiet.
My head snaps up. Every instinct I’ve spent years honing goes razor sharp. Shadow and Spirit lift their heads from where they’re sprawled in the shade, ears pricked.
And there he is.
Milo .
Standing at the edge of the clearing like a damn mirage, backpack on his back and wearing a simple white t-shirt and denim shorts that catches the light and shows off those toned cyclist legs.
His dark hair is down, a little messy from the hike, cheeks flushed.
Those striking blue eyes lock onto mine and widen.
What the hell is he doing here?
And more to the point, how the fuck did he find my cabin?
I set the pen down slowly, deliberately.
My jaw tightens. The peace I’d found shatters like glass.
Part of me wants to roar at him to turn around and leave.
The other part—the part that’s been replaying the curve of his ass in those bike shorts and the way his pecs outlined so well against that thin t-shirt—takes a long, hungry look before I can stop it.
The boy is on my property again.
After I warned him.
After I made it crystal clear.
And yet here he stands, looking equal parts nervous and determined, like the stubborn little brat I already know he is. My cock twitches in my jeans at the sight of him, the traitorous slab of meat.
I rise from the chair, all six-foot-four of me, arms crossing over my chest as I stare him down. The deck creaks under my weight. Shadow and Spirit stay put, but their tails give a single wag each—like they remember him. Traitors too.
“Milo,” I say, voice low and rough, carrying across the clearing. “You’ve got a real problem following orders.”
I don’t move toward the boy.
Not yet.
I let the silence stretch, let him feel the full weight of my gaze. Because whatever reason brought him all the way out here, past the fences and the warnings, he’s about to learn that trespassing on Connor King’s land twice isn’t something I take lightly.
Even if the sight of him standing there in those microscopic jean shorts, holding whatever the hell is in that bag, makes me want to do a whole lot more than just yell at him.
I stride down the three steps and across the clearing toward the boy.
Suddenly, my temper is rising fast—hot, sharp, and familiar.
This boy has directly gone against my explicit command.
After I dragged his busted bike out of the thorns, loaded it into my truck, and drove his sorry ass all the way back to town, he still couldn’t respect one simple request for privacy.
This won’t stand.
My boots eat up the distance between us. Shadow and Spirit stay on the deck, smart enough not to get in the middle of this.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up here again,” I growl, voice low and rough. “I told you?—”
“Shut up for a moment,” Milo blurts out, cutting me off mid-sentence.